Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,20
dozens of times. I had to send Henry my copy, after—”
After you stole his.
In Henry’s view, the worst of West Ravenel’s offenses had been stealing his copy of Stephen Armstrong: Treasure Hunter from a box of possessions beneath his bed at school. Although there had never been proof of the thief’s identity, Henry had remembered that Ravenel had previously mocked him when he’d seen him reading it. I know he’s the one, Henry had written. He’s probably done something awful with it. Dropped it down the privy. I’d be surprised if the nincompoop can even read.
“Someday when we’re big,” Phoebe had written in response, full of righteous vengeance, “we’ll go thrash him together and take it back from him.”
But now she was sitting next to him at dinner.
“—after he lost his copy,” she finished awkwardly. She watched as a footman poured wine into one of her glasses.
“How did he—” Mr. Ravenel began, and stopped with a frown. He moved in the chair, seeming uneasy, and began again. “When I was a boy, there was a book—” Another pause, and he tried to angle his body more toward hers.
“Mr. Ravenel,” Phoebe asked, puzzled, “are you quite all right?”
“Yes. It’s only—there’s a problem.” He scowled down at his trousers.
“A problem involving your lap?” she asked dryly.
He replied in an exasperated whisper. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Really.” Phoebe wasn’t certain whether to be amused or alarmed. “What is it?”
“The woman on my other side keeps putting her hand on my leg.”
Stealthily Phoebe leaned forward to peek around him at the culprit. “Isn’t that Lady Colwick?” she whispered. “The one whose mother, Lady Berwick, taught etiquette to Pandora and Cassandra?”
“Yes,” he said curtly. “It appears she neglected to teach it to her daughter.”
From what Phoebe understood, Dolly, Lady Colwick, had recently married a wealthy older man but was reportedly having affairs behind his back with her former suitors. In fact, it had been Dolly’s scandalous carryings-on that had resulted in an accidental meeting between Pandora and Gabriel in the first place.
Mr. Ravenel flinched irritably and reached beneath the table to push away the unseen, exploring hand.
Phoebe understood his dilemma. If a gentleman called attention to such outrageous behavior, he would be blamed for embarrassing the lady. Moreover, the lady could easily deny it, and people would be far more inclined to believe her.
All along the table, footmen filled glasses with water, wine, and iced champagne. Deciding to take advantage of the stir of activity, Phoebe said to Mr. Ravenel, “Lean forward, please.”
His brows lifted slightly, but he obeyed.
Reaching across the broad expanse of his back, Phoebe prodded Lady Colwick’s bare upper arm with her forefinger. The young woman gave her a mildly startled glance. She was very pretty, her dark hair pinned up in an ornate mass of shiny ringlets interwoven with ribbons and pearls. The brows over her heavy-lashed eyes had been carefully plucked into a pair of perfect thin crescents, like a china doll’s. A thick rope of pearls, weighted with diamond drops the size of Bristol cherries, glittered around her neck.
“My dear,” Phoebe said pleasantly, “I can’t help but notice that you keep trying to borrow Mr. Ravenel’s napkin. Do take this one.” She extended her own napkin to the young woman, who began to reach for it reflexively.
In the next instant, however, Lady Colwick snatched her hand back. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
Phoebe wasn’t deceived. A guilty blush had infused the young woman’s cheeks, and the set of her rosebud lips had turned distinctly sullen. “Must I explain?” she asked very softly. “This gentleman does not enjoy being poked and pried like an oyster at Billingsgate Market while he tries to have his dinner. Kindly keep your hands to yourself.”
Lady Colwick’s eyes narrowed balefully. “We could have shared him,” she pointed out, and turned back to her plate with a disdainful sniff.
A muffled snort of laughter came from the row of footmen behind them.
Mr. Ravenel leaned back in his chair. Without turning, he gestured over his shoulder and murmured, “Jerome.”
One of the footmen approached and leaned down to him. “Sir?”
“Any more snickering,” Mr. Ravenel warned softly, “and tomorrow you’ll be demoted to hall boy.”
“Yes, sir.”
After the footman had withdrawn, Mr. Ravenel returned his attention to Phoebe. The little whisks of laugh-lines at the outer corners of his eyes had deepened. “Thank you for not sharing me.”
Her shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “She was interfering with a perfectly unstimulating conversation. Someone had to stop her.”